


Writer's Room

by valerienne (valderys)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: monaboyd_month, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valerienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy is an author who has had his book optioned for a screenplay, and Dom is the house writer who’s been ordered to work with him in order to get the script in shape.  <s>Together they fight crime!</s>  Together they work rather well together...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writer's Room

Billy regretted it now. That one little clause that he insisted on in all his contracts, that made his agent shake his head and suck his teeth.

“They won’t like it, Billy-boy. Are you sure?”

But Billy had been sure, because he’d promised his Mam, he’d promised her on her deathbed that he’d follow his dreams, that he’d be a big Hollywood star one day.

Of course, it hadn’t happened quite like that. He’d given up his dreams of becoming an actor early on - who was going to pay to pay a wee Scottish eejit to ponce about about in tights, honestly. But while he’d been apprenticed at the bookbinders, surrounded by the chemical smells of paper and glue, he’d started dreaming of a different kind of fame. He’d always scribbled things down, little ideas, lyrics, scraps of plot or description. He wouldn’t call them stories, as such, but it didn’t take long, once he’d started, to have the little acorns grow up into great big giant oaks. Billy found he enjoyed it, tapping away long into the night on his ancient laptop. He found he enjoyed exploring an idea, taking it to its logical conclusion, drawing up characters and putting them through the wars.

Luckily, it seemed other people liked his characters too - after the usual rejections, and the odd short story that had actually sold, Billy landed a contract for a book, which he finished in a fever of anticipation and the smoky dreams of the Caliphs of distant Samarkand. Apparently, people rather liked the idea of a steampunk Arabian Nights, and after a lightning whirl of publicity and book signings, Billy found himself with both an agent and a spot on the best-seller list.

His next book was fought over - with publisher's bidding ever higher amounts to rope him into three book deals and the like. It was even easier to push for his little stipulation on his contract, just those few fatal words - Billy Boyd has the right to script his own screenplay. In the subsequent rounds of champagne receptions and sweaty nights over a hot laptop, struggling with the difficult second novel, Billy didn't even think about it. He gave up working at the bookbinders, although not without regrets - his mates there gave him a rousing send-off, joking about binding his next magnum opus themselves, and what they'd leave inside for the punters to discover. His little promise to his Mam didn't even register in the grander scheme of things.

Which left him here. Two books further on and staring at his agent in disbelief, who shrugged and said, "You asked for it," which indeed Billy had.

"But I don't know anything about writing screenplays!" Billy waved his arms around. It didn't help the situation.

Bernard looked at him pityingly. "Well, it's about time you learnt then, lad. Isn't it?"

***

"And that's where I come in," said the random guy who'd showed up at his door, looking more like some kind of beach bum than any kind of a writer. Billy tried to shut his mouth before he caught flies, taking in the messy bleached-brown hair, the sunglasses, and the painted nails.

"You write through here, yeah?" said the apparition, and pushed past Billy and into his house.

His enormous house, all marble and pillars, that was rented for him by the studio. They claimed it would give him the ambiance to write Arabian Nights flavoured scripts, but Billy doubted it would help. He hadn't even known where to start - how to explain to an executive assistant called Brandy that he wrote about giant steam-powered horses in his bedroom in a Glasgow tenement, cramped between the wardrobe and the gurgling radiator because it was the warmest place in the flat?

Hollywood. What was an ordinary bloke from Cranhill even doing here? The sun was too hot, all the teeth were too bright, and the one consolation was that he was finally a Hollywood star, of sorts, just like his Mam had wanted for him. Billy nearly groaned - so far Hollywood glamour appeared to consist of meeting after meeting during which he'd been told he needed to provide the initial 'treatment' in two weeks, only to then be left utterly alone. Apparently, Ms Walsh, who was the film's executive producer, and also She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Crossed, expected it, and what Ms Walsh wanted - she got.

Billy hadn't the heart to explain he had no idea what a 'treatment' was - although after some frantic Googling, he had some clues. And now he had a strange bloke in his house, who was apparently - yes, actually was - making himself at home with the juicer in the enormous white space they called a kitchen. Was this really his life now?

"My name's Dom," said the stranger, "Can you get guava fruit for next time - I like a bit of guava on the quiet."

"You're English," said Billy, stupidly, and the bloke... Dom grinned at him. Billy blinked a bit. His jaw was a little crooked but the smile really transformed him. His eyes were very blue.

"Yeah, Manchester born and bred, via Germany and now L.A." Dom shrugged and then looked thoughtful. He tapped at his teeth with his thumb ring. "Where are you set up then?"

"Umm. Through here?"

Billy was set up - sort of. To be honest he'd been a bit shell-shocked at all the space, like there were going to be ninjas that jumped out at him from the high ceilings and polished floors. His battered old laptop was tucked away into a little room he suspiciously thought was actually some kind of closet. He'd almost made a nest of duvets on the floor. Billy kicked at the edge of the door frame in embarrassment as Dom surveyed the place.

"Sorry?" he ventured, but Dom only snorted.

"You've got culture shock, that's all. Is it blocking you? Yeah, I can relate to that. I suspect it's why I'm assigned, rather than Evi or Jorge. Despite the fact that Scotland and Manchester aren't really that similar, but no-one in L.A. is going to get that." He sent another flashing smile Billy's way. "Don't worry, I can work with this."

Billy was feeling shocky but only in a 'it's all going a bit fast' kind of a way.

"Not to seem ungrateful, but why are you here?" he ventured, finally, wondering if he was being stupid.

"It was finalised in the brunch meeting yesterday," said Dom, and then cocked his head slightly as he frowned. "Actually, you're right, I don't think you were in that one. I'm one of the studio's house writers, I'm going to help you whip the script into shape." He looked terribly amused suddenly, and waved an arm indicating the closet. "Welcome to your Writer's Room."

Billy could only groan.

***

"Look," said Billy, untold numbers of days later, "You must be fed up with me by now. I _can_ cope without someone baby-sitting me, you know."

He got up to pace around the Cupboard, as they'd taken to calling the place, in between the shouting matches, the thrown pens and all the coffee.

Dom was perched on the very edge of the ridiculous gilt and brocade chaise longue he'd pulled in from the bedroom. His hair was standing up on one side and his eyeliner was smudged - he looked like an adorable koala bear who hadn't had its eucalyptus leaves yet. Which meant he looked very, very dangerous indeed.

"You can't tell me to fuck off every time we hit a bump - well you can, but I'm not about to pay attention," Dom snarled back. "I've got better things to do than listen to you whine."

Billy threw his hands in the air, "You're paid to listen to me whine!"

He thumped the wall they'd taken to calling the White Board, which was covered in post-it notes and sharpie, but he didn't thump it hard, he needed his knuckles intact, thank you very much. He was a writer, after all. And therein lay a lot of the problems, Billy didn't mind admitting. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He was a novelist, dammit, not a screenwriter, it was a different craft, with different disciplines and Dom was a fiend from Hell sent to torment him. He should have a pitchfork and a tail, quite frankly. Billy's lips twitched - at the moment Dom's hair really did look like little horns.

"I'm _not_ paid to listen to you cry and moan as though your life is so hard - I'm paid to get a treatment to Ms Walsh - over your dead body, if necessary." Dom's face was screwed up in simmering irritation, his brow low and heavy, until he caught Billy's eye as he turned back around. Then neither of them couldn't help it, it was both mortifying and ridiculous at the same time, Billy watched Dom's lips twitch and his own couldn't help but follow, until they were both giggling madly like children. Dom flopped back onto the chaise longue with his hands over his head, his t-shirt riding up a little to show a strip of lightly tanned belly, with a tantalising trail of dark hair. Billy sank back into his office chair by the table hardly either of them used and watched him for a few endless seconds before guiltily looking away.

"Is it always like this?" he asked, plaintive, "I feel like I'm going mad." He coughed, the tickle coming suddenly from nowhere despite the warm air of the room, making him screw up his eyes from the bright sunshine still flooding the floor despite the half-pulled blind.

Dom shrugged. "Yeah well, that's Hollywood for you. Sends you mad, well known fact. Makes you grow hair on your palms - Daniel Craig's a two shaves a day bloke these days."

"You're a sad strange little man," Billy offered back and Dom grinned. "But you like me."

Billy threw a sharpie at him. It landed on his bare belly, and Billy desperately tried not to feel even the slightest bit jealous.

"We'd better get back to work," he said, instead, resigning himself to the madness.

***

The treatment was finally in, and was approved; they had the green light. Not for the movie itself, Dom had hastened to point out, but for the two of them to make a start at the script. The first draft of the script.

Dom had begun treating Billy almost as though he was some kind of Professor Henry Higgins and Billy his bedraggled Cockney flower girl. They'd be in a meeting (another meeting, endless rounds of meetings) and Dom would pass a note - a note! - or text him with details of what was really going on. Billy had a hard time keeping a straight face because Dom gave all the executive's animal nicknames. Reading about how Mongoose was circling Peewit in preparation for an epic noshing meant his jaw ached from suppressing his laughter, even as he did sort of see it. Half the meetings were pointless apart from the politics, but once he started to see the undercurrents, it became just another kind of game. More serious than the endless rounds of hangman that were being played out along the bottom of the White Board, but still a game. It made Billy marvel - they were juggling with hundreds of millions of dollars in these meetings. His own small movie began to seem small potatoes beside all the rest.

The script was going well. Billy thought it was. But he kept getting these headaches, and his eyes were constantly aching from the brightness and the glare. Sunglasses helped, but felt weird. He wanted a walk along the Clyde with his nose nipped in the cold. He wanted the scratchy wool feel of his fingerless gloves. He wanted a good whisky, all peat and smoke, but he wanted it to taste _right_ \- L.A. didn't seem made for whisky somehow. Billy just itched for it all, and his work was suffering.

Dom wasn't really Henry Higgins. He wasn't irascible enough, or as self-involved - but he was clever enough, and cheeky with it. Compassionate too. Billy stopped thinking about all the things Dom was, it didn't help.

"You're homesick," Dom announced grandly, and Billy raised his head from his duvet nest and glared at him blindly past the glare from his laptop screen.

"I am not!" If he could have summoned more energy in his reply then it might have been more convincing. Only one more line of dialogue and he could justify making a cup of tea - surely Tariq could manage that? He was the hero, he was a clever rogue, he could talk his way out of anything... Billy's brain felt like it was offline. He'd dreamt Tariq up - surely he knew what he was going to say now that the Clockwork Carpet had carried his hero far away to the Gleaming Towers of Khotan?

Then Dom was suddenly a lot closer and Billy blinked up at him without understanding the why of it at all.

"I have an idea," he announced, "I think you need it."

Then Dom disappeared. Billy put his head down and debated the merits of tea versus an ice cold beer, as fathoming Dom's mysterious ways was an exercise designed to make his head hurt even more. Billy was just contemplating moving to fetch said tea or beer when he shivered, good-bumps prickling across his skin, and the surprise of it stopped him utterly. The temperature continued to drop, until Billy was huddling in his duvet nest for real and his breath started gusting in white clouds. The door to the Cupboard opened again and Dom wandered in with two mugs that immediately began to steam in the cold air. He plonked one down in front of Billy's nose before reaching up and chucking a tartan blanket over the slatted blind. It threw the room into a deliciously dark twilight.

"There you go, Glasgow - or Manchester - on a winter's evening, courtesy of me jimmying the air-con. If you close your eyes and squint a bit, anyway," said Dom, cheerfully, but his smile had an uncertainty about it, a hint of vulnerability. Billy snaked out a hand, as the cold nipped at it, and grabbed his mug. Hot chocolate. With a drop of whisky, if he wasn't mistaken. Billy took a mouthful and closed his eyes in bliss.

He forced them open again to look at Dom. His headache was receding, and he felt wonderful in comparison to just a few minutes ago. His stomach flip-flopped for no reason as he caught Dom's eye.

"Thank you," said Billy, meaning every word, "It's a real treat."

Dom grinned in relief, slightly sideways as always, even as his teeth began to chatter.

"Here," said Billy, and threw wide one of the duvets. "If you want to, that is."

Dom paused for just a second too long, which made Billy's hand slippery around his mug and his throat dry, before he finally crouched down at Billy's side and sprawled close, pulling the duvet over his side and up to his chin. They lay there together, their body heat warming the shared space, shoulders and knees gently brushing while they sipped their drinks. Billy felt his nose chill down to something resembling an icicle but he didn't really care. His heart felt warmer than it had in a long while.

***

"This is ridiculous," said Billy, throwing his sharpie at the White Board in frustration. "How many drafts have we done? Four, five? I'm losing count. Forget that, I'm losing the will to live!"

"Yeah, well, it could be worse." Dom lay on the floor, his feet up on the chaise longue, his laptop resting on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. "At least we look likely for a proper green light - this will be the first project of mine to actually go into production. If it does."

"And you've been working here for how long?"

Dom shrugged, making his laptop slide off. He made a grab for it resulting in a tangle of arms and legs that made Billy laugh, his hands over his face to stifle his less-than-manly giggles.

They were getting closer all the time, Billy realised. Closer to a finished working script but also... to each other. He wasn't sure there was another person in the whole world who knew him better than Dom did, and that was both lovely and scary all at the same time. Billy was a private kind of a person, on the whole, but he couldn't be in the hothouse atmosphere that such a writing team fostered and not be touched by it. It was like being cell mates, but not in a creepy, stalkery, I-fancy-your-virgin-arse way. Although he did, god help him. He fancied Dom rather too much for comfort.

But he wasn't going to do anything about it. Billy had thought about that, over and over again - he couldn't shag his writing partner. What if it destroyed their professional relationship? That certain something that meant bouncing his ideas off Dom's razor sharp brain was both a pleasure and a challenge? Anyway, he was getting ahead of himself, who was to say that Dom felt the same way? Not to mention that when this was done Billy was going back to Glasgow, to his drafty tenement and his walks along the Clyde. Then there'd be thousands of miles between them too. No, there were an awful lot of reasons why Billy couldn't think about such feelings, and only one thing in its favour.

The flash of Dom's blue eyes, limned in black, like lightning under a heavy sky. His wiry strength, and kissable belly. His sense of humour, mad as a fruit-bat, but matching Billy's own. His thoughtfulness and kindness, his hard work, and endless cheer. There was really only Dom himself standing in the way. Billy groaned to himself. It wasn't allowed to be enough.

But the days were endless, the project never-ending. Billy went to bed these days, still with a prickle of homesickness under his skin, but also with his stomach muscles aching from laughter. The dreams he had were good ones, he thought, what little he could remember of them, while his daydreams were explicit in a drowsy, first flush of passion kind of a way. They had plenty of time - Hollywood seemed to move pretty slowly when you were stuck in development hell, but Billy found he couldn't bring himself to mind too much.

Until the day Dom came crashing into the Cupboard, waving their script's latest incarnation, excitement rolling off him in waves.

"We've got it, it's a go, green-lit all the way. Jerry Bruckheimer's up for producing and they're beginning to cast now - I've heard James McAvoy's in the frame, which would be fantastic, but it's early days, so I'm not counting my chickens. Shia LaBeouf would be good for Tariq don't you think? If McAvoy's not up for it. What do you reckon?"

He should be pleased, but instead Billy's heart sank. Dom looked so happy, but all Billy could think was that it was the beginning of the end.

"Yeah, sure, that's fantastic news," he said, trying to show proper enthusiasm. He was sure it was fake but Dom didn't seem to notice, too busy listing all the scenes they'd need to finish, or think about tweaking. Listing all the possible directors that might be in the frame.

"Yeah, Dom," said Billy, in all the right places, watching as Dom came alive in a completely new way, like there was light under his skin, and he was glowing with it.

That night, Billy didn't touch their script. Instead, he opened up a different file and he wrote three thousand words of a new story, the start of a brand new novel in another universe. The words just pouring out of him, in a flow of creativity that felt more real and honest than anything he'd written since arriving in L.A. And if the protagonist was a mad little bastard with an attitude problem and a heart of gold? Well, who would know - who would tell? Dom would never have reason to read it, and anyway, Billy had been neglecting the next book in his three book deal. His _real_ job. His real life.

He mustn't forget that.

***

In the end, it was easy making his decision. Writers weren't much needed on set anyway, once shooting started, and Billy told himself he didn't want to stick around. He let the suits take him and the rest of the development team out for a dinner and a club, in celebration, and it was easy to just let himself enjoy the slick fake banter, knowing it was going to be the last time (Mongoose chatting up Dormouse, running his meaty hand up her skirt, Grass Snake taking a surreptitious picture on her camera phone). Billy drank his whisky watered like everyone did here (sacrilege), and it still made him tipsy. The club pulsed in shades of neon red, even through his eyelids when he blinked. Dom was all turquoise and glitter, in some kind of body-hugging sleeveless tee, his eyes popping from their smoky depths. He couldn't stop smiling, and Billy wanted to tell him he was leaving, wanted to admit that there was a plane booked for tomorrow, that there was a packed suitcase or two hidden in the wardrobe, but he was a coward. He didn't dare.

Instead, when Dom's hand caught at his, to drag him out onto the dance floor, Billy didn't have the heart to say no. He just grasped at it - strong blunt fingers, matching turquoise polish on the thumbnail - and let himself be led. There was a pulsing bass line that matched the throbbing behind his right eye, and the twisted push-pull of longing that characterised all his memories of Dom. He let himself give in to it, for just a few moments, dancing next to him, letting the crowd push them together, sweat-glazed flesh slip-sliding to the music, swaying with it, feeling the burning graze of fingertips against his arm, his back, as Dom tried to shield them both from the body-surfing crowd. Then there was that quicksilver grin, cheeky and conspiratorial in equal measure, before Dom himself was climbing onto the steps at the side and throwing himself into the crowd, trusting them to catch him. There was another deafening cheer, and by some magic they bore him aloft, Billy himself helping the tide of humanity along, finding his hands at Dom's waist, bare skin under his palms, the tender give of Dom's belly digging at his fingers. Dom was let down then, and fell straight into Billy's arms, laughing, brilliant as the stars but undeniably true and real under his hands. There was a moment, probably only seconds really, when Dom wasn't laughing, he turned solemn, and stared at Billy, his eyes bright, his lips damp and parted. He leaned forward, and Billy felt as though his heart would beat right out of his chest, ridiculous as it was, and him a grown man. But he leant forward in turn, because if he was offered this, finally, he wasn't a complete eejit, he'd take it, and damn all consequences. He was a writer, wasn't he? And writer's took chances. Sod the sensible man he was the rest of the time, if he could have this just once then...

The crowd roared again, and another surfer threw themselves down onto the heaving mass of flesh below. Arms reached up and carried him, knocking people awry in the process, pushing and heaving, feet kicking and all breath lost. Dom was shoved away from Billy, and carried forward in some unlikely eddy, before the dance floor crowd closed up behind him again, almost as though his particular arrangement of teeth and tongue and limbs had never been. Everywhere Billy looked there was undulating flesh, slippery gyrations interchangeable with each other, as though in some fairground distorting mirror. But Dom was nowhere to be seen.

Billy heaved a little sigh as he stood, straight and tall, a little windbreak against the buffeting of fate. Then he shrugged minutely. He had always known it really. That they were never meant to be. He'd had his moment of madness, but that was all it was, and he should have known better - this wasn't one of his novels. Real life didn't work like that.

Billy turned and made his way off the dance floor, said his goodbyes, before making his way out of the club. It wasn't far to a taxi rank, but the journey took a long time. He didn't look back.

***

It was a year later, and things really hadn't changed at all. Billy wondered if Hollywood would always feel this way, like a city of outsiders all desperately looking for the way in. Or maybe that was just him. He hadn't even wanted to come to the premiere, his memories were still haunted by that far away tickle of shame, that distant hint of longing, but he knew he owed it to his Mam. What it came down to was that Billy wasn't going to cut off his nose to spite his face, he was going to walk down that red carpet, and be a Hollywood star, just this once. He was going to listen to the cheers, pose for photos, drink all the champagne he was given. And then he was going to take back his fancy gift bag and he was going to put it on his Mam's grave. That's what he was going to do. He took a deep breath, smiled until his face ached, and then got out of the limousine to the roars of the crowd.

At the far end of the red carpet, Billy gulped and stumbled his way into the blessedly dim movie theatre, thanking his lucky stars that he wouldn't have to do that ever again. He was sure Mam would understand. He grabbed the nearest glass of fizz, and took a quick gulp, before blinking away bubble induced tears. So there were plenty of reasons why Billy didn't notice there was a man behind him until it was too late, until he'd almost backed straight into him.

"Oh, sorry, mate, didn't see you there," said Billy, quickly grasping at the man's suited arms to stop them both going arse over tit.

The bloke was wearing a tux, like everybody else, but his was decorated with a barely there pattern in the fabric done in glittering thread, it was unusual and different while still being undeniably a tux. Billy rather admired it, but even as the thought chased itself through his brain, his stomach was sinking. It would be just the sort of thing that...

"Hey Billy," said Dom, his voice rumbling in his chest, "Funny bumping into you."

"Yeah, well, premiere and all that. I had to make it, didn't I?" Billy felt awkward and uncomfortable. Suddenly his tie was far too tight. All the things he'd planned to say went out of the window, leaving his brain entirely empty except for the litany of Dom, it's Dom, and the ridiculous urge to hug him senseless. Even though Billy knew Dom was far more likely to punch him than hug him. "It's good to see you - you're looking great," he just managed instead.

It was true, there was a light tan gracing Dom's skin now, as though these days he finally made it out of dusty Writer's Rooms once in a while, and his hair was shorter and darker. Success suited him, Billy thought, and his heart thumped hard, just once. He was happy for him. He was.

"It's funny that," said Dom, his mouth lifting in a kind of smile, more crooked than usual, more wry, "I got a taste for surfing, after the club, after you left." He paused. "I mean - I found I wanted to give the real thing a go. Body against the elements or something, I suppose. It worked for me, set the juices flowing. I've got a commission for the next Superman script now."

"I heard. I'm happy for you," said Billy, and he was. But there was a vise squeezing down on his insides, that he couldn't just ignore. Seeing Dom made all the memories fresh again, reminded him of the laughter and the want, and the Cupboard with its stupid White Board. Billy wondered if they'd painted it over yet. Probably.

"I... wrote another book," said Billy, stumbling over the painful trivia of this, knowing he couldn't walk away, not this time. But wishing for something, anything else.

"Yeah?" Dom smiled again. "I haven't read it. Bet it's another bestseller."

"Well..."

The crowd eddied around them, and except for the lack of neon lighting they could almost have been back in the club from Billy's last night in L.A. But it was Billy who was pushed this time, thrown stumbling as some great beanpole of an actress swept on by, her heavily beaded stole swinging and catching him hard on the temple. He swore he could see stars.

"Oh no you don't, not this time," said Dom, as he reached out to drag Billy back, harder than perhaps he meant to. Billy was jerked close against Dom's body, able to smell his spicy cologne and the fruity bitter scent from the champagne in the rapid breaths that brushed against his ear. It made Billy smile. This felt right, being manhandled by Dom again. He wanted their duvet nest suddenly, with a pang at the impossibility, he wanted to turn the clock back, and to make a different decision, to not perhaps have been so sensible.

Dom's eyes were not as blue tonight, less eyeliner, Billy supposed. Shame. He was a little taller than Billy too, he'd never noticed that before.

"Oh fuck it," said Dom, and leaned across the small intervening space to plant his lips on Billy's. It was sudden enough that Billy froze, but not for very long. As he felt the hot nudge of Dom's tongue seeking entrance, he parted his lips and let him in, feeling the hotwet glory of his mouth as a newly minted wonder, as a gift he'd denied himself, as a pooling heat in his belly softening its vise-like tension. As they explored each other, Billy clutched at Dom's glimmering tux, feeling hidden warmth, but wanting more, something real and tangible. He trailed his fingers down an elegant sleeve, feeling Dom shiver beneath all the finery, until at last he could grasp one of his hands, all practical strength and soft/calloused skin. It made him want to shout, but instead he groaned a little inside Dom's mouth and deepened the kiss, making it hotter and more messy. Then, a timeless eternity later, making them jump, the bell rang to signal that they should find their seats, that the premiere was about to begin. Only then could they finally made themselves part, with one last little fleeting biting kiss.

Billy looked at him. Dom's mouth had curled up just a very little, in a more tender and uncertain smile than Billy was used to, almost as though he couldn't believe his own senses, but he looked so happy about it, that Billy decided it was probably ok. That they were going to be ok.

They went in together, fingers still linked, and Billy was grateful beyond measure that their assigned seats were next to one another. Sat in the depths of the cinema, after the lights had dimmed and as the opening credits began to roll, Dom leaned across to whisper in his ear. "I might have lied a little. I loved the new book, alright, it was brilliant. But I liked the dedication even more."

Billy squeezed his hand where he was still holding it, not letting go, not for an instant, but instead feeling a stupid prickle behind his eyes. He blinked it back as he thought of what he'd written impetuously one day in his publisher's office; 'To D.M. for all the lost chances. Regret is part of being alive, but I will never regret meeting you.'

And Billy stared blindly up at the start of their movie only to finally see 'Screenplay by' and their names together, linked side by side. Where they ought to be.


End file.
